


New Ways

by Ghostcat



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Compartmentalizing, Ex Sex, F/M, Matt Murdock is angsting again, Nostalgia, mentions of Matt Murdock/Karen Page
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 10:28:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6280972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/pseuds/Ghostcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Matt Murdock’s door is unlocked—it’s the third time in as many weeks.  She’s there, of course. Waiting. The seconds between the rise of her foot and the way it slides on the ground, toe first, like a slinking cat.</em>  --  Matt Murdock tries to make sense of Elektra Natchios' reappearance in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M for sex and language.
> 
> Title taken from _New Ways_ by Daughter, which is scored the writing of this.
> 
> Wrote this while waiting for Netflix to go live with Season Two so is probably AU as hell, but I don't caaaaare. I just wanted to smush their faces together before the show broke my heart (probably). This is wild, unrealistic conjecture based on the pre-show previews so any similarities to new canon are accidental. 
> 
> Thank you to blithers, BryroseA, and Cheshirecatstrut for their grammar-policing and insight. All remaining errors are mine and mine alone.

Matt Murdock’s door is unlocked—it’s the third time in as many weeks.

She’s there, of course. Waiting. The seconds between the rise of her foot and the way it slides on the ground, toe first, like a slinking cat. He knows those seconds. Used to rejoice in them, because they meant her approach. The easy stalk from one side of a room to the other, from away to into: his arms, bed, body, head.

“I’d prefer it if you knocked like everyone else. Just because we’re working together doesn’t give you the right to let yourself in.”

Elektra smiles and her smile has a hum to it, a held-back laugh. He can feel the vibration against his lips when he thinks about kissing her.

Once, a long time ago, before he knew just how weak he could be, he’d been in her bed, his arms tied to the bedpost by the wrists. A long red sash, she’d explained, running the tip of her fingernail down his throat, to his chest, then further.

_“Red. What is that to you?”_

_“Blood,” he’d groaned._

_That laugh against his knee. “Yes. But also me. And this.” Her lips on his cock, then the walls of her mouth, hot and tight. The flat of her tongue curving and suctioning insistently at the tip until the black wall of his mind went white._

“Someone is thinking about something nice,” she sing-songs, her hand at the loop in his pants.

“I was trying to remember color.”

“Matthew,” she tuts. “You have a dirty mind.”

He tilts his head and she grabs his chin, centers him again.

“And a pretty face.”

She pushes against him and her cheekbone is at his jaw, a swipe of her lips right at his neck. Those long fingers tugging at his shirt, then underneath it. The palm of her hand warm on his waist, sliding to the small of his back, lower still. Pressing him towards her.

“We should go,” he murmurs, fighting it, fighting this, refusing to give. Out there, in the actual world, there’s a deadly rendezvous they need to intercept. Elektra seems unbothered, riding the length of his leg at a leisurely speed, as if all they have is time.

“We don’t have to do anything. I got bored waiting so I went and took care of it myself.” She nips at his earlobe. “Touch me.”

It’s laughable how quickly he moves. His fingers reading her spine from her neck to the bones of her skull—delicate reminders of her frangibility. He grabs her hair and twists it around his hand, yanking her head back. She gasps, then giggles. Not the way a young girl might, but something darker, blacker than sleep.

His other hand is busy between her legs. “You took out a Yakuza assassin? Without me?”

Elektra pulls his hand away, slides it up her body to her mouth. She sucks on his fingers greedily, with just a hint of teeth. He lets go of her hair and she releases his fingers, smiling against his skin.

“Piece of cake.”

She stays the night.

 

* * *

 

The Nelson & Murdock main office air conditioner is ancient and currently housing a family of sparrows in the space beneath. They chirp and chatter and their noise is getting increasingly harder to dim in his head.

“You haven't been to Citi Field yet? Are you hearing this, Matty?”

“Foggy, leave her alone. Maybe she's a Yankees fan.”

“That's hockey, right?” Karen chirps.

Foggy yowls.

“Just kidding, I know it's basketball.”

“Oh sweet Jesus. This is what torture sounds like. She just winked at you, Matt. He didn’t see that, Karen. Next time caption it.”

Karen shimmers with the heat of embarrassment. “Shhh, Foggy. I'm sorry, Matt. But yes, I winked at you.”

“What would either of you do without me? The world would cease to make sense.”

Matt yawns, covering his mouth a beat too late. “That is probably true. Sorry. Late night.”

She leaves a cup of coffee to his right, black and in the mug he likes. Karen is wearing the new lipstick Foggy complimented her on, Matt can smell its perfume. Her long hair brushes his arm when she leans down to talk and he hears the smile she saves for him: indulgent, forgiving, warm.

“Hungover?”

Matt grimaces in response. Karen puts her palm on his forehead.

“So I’ve been thinking. How about Italian? For our date. Thursday? My friend is friends with one of the Frankies at Frankie’s Spuntino and he promised me a table at eight. That's in Brooklyn, right off of the F. I hear it's really nice.” Karen claps her hands and clasps them, waiting for his response.

Matt clears his throat. “Karen.”

Her heart is so loud. Everything is so loud, it’s the sound of her happiness.

“Sounds great. Can’t wait.”

“Great! I’ll call him now.”

They're in the middle of the hottest summer in recent memory and the city stinks. Every corner is dank with sewage puddles and the garbage festers in mammoth piles. Flies and mosquitoes buzz incessantly, sweat above his lip drips into his mouth, salty with grime. Hell's Kitchen is noisy with the threat of violence, the ceaseless chatter of discontent.

He needs this, the office routine, the take out smells and Foggy’s voice, dipping and swaying as he tells Karen about the time he caught a Mike Piazza foul ball. He needs the quieter half of his life.

His phone blares, not the usual name ringtone. A long _eeeeeeeeee_ of a screech, in lurid repetition. It clatters on his desk as he tries to answer. When he manages to, there's no one on the other end.

Foggy and Karen come running in. Foggy's arms are up and swinging, the air in the room rearranges itself to the motion of the swing—a baseball bat. She's holding something as well; small, wet, the faint scent of vanilla hazelnut clinging to the air.

“So I think I know what I was planning but what's the coffee pot for?” Foggy’s voice is high and hits from odd angles. He must be looking around the room.

“To smash over someone's head!”

Foggy comes closer and past him, to the window. “What the hell was that?” 

Karen's heart hammers in her chest. She approaches as well. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. A friend of mine must've changed the settings on my phone. A real prankster.”

She laughs once in disbelief. “You have other friends besides Foggy?”

Foggy raises his hand, followed by the unmistakable slap of a high five.

“Both of you are hilarious.”

“That was pretty funny,” Foggy says.

Their laughter dies out and heartbeats settle.  One after the other, until he's the only agitated one.

“I know!” Karen jumps up on her tiptoes excitedly, raising that coffee pot like an unmade toast. “I'm going to go buy us some frozen yogurt. It’s hotter than hell in here and we all could use a stressbuster.”

“You want some money?” Foggy asks.

“Save it, my treat.”

She grins, a quick wet uptick of her lips, and it feels like grace. He doesn't deserve it. She doesn't know this, Karen moves with the joy of not knowing, and he and Foggy stay silent, waiting. They listen to her leave with a forced casualness that would almost make him laugh if it weren't so fraught.

The door closes and her flats clack against the hall flooring, then the stairs. Once he can hear her on sidewalk outside, Matt nods. Foggy sits heavily across from him in one of his client chairs.

“Do I even want to know?”

“Definitely not.”

Foggy grinds his incisors together. It grates. He shifts to take something out of his pocket and throws it into the air, catches it. Throws it. Catches. A baseball.

“Why do I feel an interrogation coming on?”

“Were you ever going to tell me you asked Karen out?”

Matt laughs. “What? I didn’t know I had to send out an announcement.”

“Have you slept with her?”

“No. Not that it’s any of your business.”

Foggy returns to his one-sided game of catch. The woosh of the ball in the air, the thwack as it hits his hand. The press of his mouth, the frustration.

“Foggy. We’re not in junior high. There’s no such thing as dibs. Besides, aren’t you still with Marcy?”

When he doesn’t reply, Matt’s smile falters. “Sorry.”

Foggy places the ball on Matt’s desk. It rolls, threatens to fall off the desk, but then stops and stills on the edge.

“I’m offended, actually, that you would go there. Like I’m somehow incapable of respecting a woman’s choice. Like this has anything to do with me.”

Matt shakes his head. “I wasn't insinuating that.”

“You can be a grade-A asshat, Matt. A real rat.” Foggy pauses and brings his hand up to his forehead, rubbing the spot between his brows. “I didn’t mean to rhyme. I blame Hamilton. I blame everything on Hamilton.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Karen’s amazing and yes,” Foggy drops his voice then. “I _love_ her. In a way that’s more than friendly. But that’s natural. She’s kind. And gorgeous. She’s my other favorite person. Or maybe my only one, at this point.”

Foggy stands up, hands in his pockets. No. _Fists_ in his pockets. Matt straightens up in his chair and listens as Foggy walks away, towards the door. He stops at the threshold. “I know you. I know something is up.”

“Foggy, I—”

“Stop. Don’t put her in harm’s way.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“And don't play with her. She's really important to us, this place. Not just as an employee. She's our friend.”

“I know what you mean. Don't worry. It's serious. I… I care for her.”

Foggy’s sigh is long and drawn out, with a hard rasp at the end. It suggests patience long gone. “You don't stay friends with your exes, and that says a lot. I used to think it was because you deliberately sought out short-term flings. That's not it though, is it, Matt?”

“Foggy.”

“Sort your shit out.”

The ancient air conditioner in his window splutters awake and Matt clings to his desk like a life raft.

Karen comes back, distributes half-melted frozen treats (chocolate for her, plain for him, mango for Foggy) and Foggy makes her laugh again and again. As if nothing is wrong, as if his best friend isn't the most disappointing person in his life.

Matt can hear it though. The slight huskiness in Foggy's voice, the exhaustion. Like it tires him to play this role; the man who knows nothing. The innocent who has no idea how bad it can get.

 

* * *

 

When Matt comes home to his apartment and Elektra isn’t there, he hates it. He opens a beer, drinks it, and listens as far as he can. The immediate radius outside his home, the circle past that, and so on and so on, until he can hear the boats in the water, the theater crowds on the Broadway side streets, traffic at the Columbus Circle roundabout, the way the crowds thin out on the way to M.S.G. before returning en masse at the entrances to go see tonight’s game.

He hasn't felt lonely in years and here it is suddenly.

Matt had forgotten what it had been like to lose her the first time. How he’d grieved. It wasn’t something he had shared with Foggy, or anyone. He’d carried the secret around, a dead weight. He’d mourned her in the quiet moments when he felt no ears and eyes upon him. Which was hardly ever. There were always others. You’re never alone in the world when you need to be.

He’d go and sit for hours on the stone benches outside St. Paul’s. The ones with the acoustic trick where you could whisper on one end and the person on the other end could hear you as if you’d whispered in their ear. Matt didn’t need the trick, he could always hear everything.

Elektra would whisper anyway. She liked that he could single her out from all the other souls on the street, hear her among all the conversations and heartbeats. Blocks away, _I love you, Matthew_ at the stoplight. Only her.

There’s a knock at the door. Not Elektra, or anyone he knows. Someone, agitated. Biting their fingernails. Muttering to themselves. A woman, her voice wry and dark, saying, “This is not good. Fuck me. Hard. Santa. Claus.”

That startles a laugh out of him so he opens the door. She’s tall. Smells faintly of whiskey, honey lemon cough drops, and generic Dial-type soap. There’s a barely healed cut on her bare leg and she fidgets once, in discomfort. Her feet blistering in her too-heavy shoes—combat boots. Combat boots and cut-off shorts, in 95 degree weather. Frayed denim strands. Sweat pooling on the back of a cotton t-shirt.

He tilts his head.

“Oh, hi. Umm. I’m dropping something off from Jeri Hogarth? You Matthew Murdock?”

“That’s me. Right, she had some files for me.”

She holds out the envelope and he does his usual, expected not-grabbing of the proffered item. Appearances.

“Fuck. Sorry.”

She takes his hand, puts the envelope in it. Hard, Fed-Ex, standard-sized. She’s younger than he would’ve thought, going by her voice and affect. Her fingers are smoother.

“Not that this isn’t fun but can I have my hand back?”

“Sorry.” Matt raises his eyebrow and smiles.

He doesn’t hear an answering smile from her but her body shifts, relaxes. She unclenches her hands.

“This might be kind of a rude question but how are you gonna read that?”

“I have assistive tech.”

“Oh. Of course. Thanks. For explaining.”

“My pleasure.”

The woman stands there for a moment. She’s looking at him, he can tell from her positioning, and then through a microshift in her shoulders, just past him, into his apartment hallway. But he has no fear of her, her presence is oddly reassuring.

“Oh, let me get my wallet.”

Her laugh is short. “No, buddy. Hogarth paid up.” She leans in and whispers, “FYI. I saw some chick scoping out your place before I got here. Small, long, dark hair. Which might not mean shit to you, I guess. But thought you might want to know, in case you got a crazy ex or something.”

She walks off hurriedly, before he can say thank you or ask for her name. Her boots stomp off down the stairs, and when the door slams in the vestibule, Elektra’s hand snakes around his waist.

“You ready, Matthew?”

“Yes.”

 

* * *

 

They fought hard and left a whole room of men passed out on the floor. When they get back to his place, he doesn’t wait for the shower before guiding her into his bed. He mouths along her leg and pauses at her ankle. The cloying sweetness of vanilla extract bright at the spot where the tendons meet. He licks it and smiles.

“That’s an old one.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Elektra pushes at his shoulder with her foot and scream-laughs when he grabs both her ankles and pulls her closer.

“You forget. I know all your games.” He crawls over her, breathing her in long lines. “A tiny bit of nutmeg on your elbow. Lemon at your nipple. Cherry candy at your earlobe.”

Matt flips her over, licks up the length of her spine.

“What a rude thing to do to someone with keen senses,” she says, her voice dripping with disingenuousness. “What kind of monster would do something like that?”

“The kind you love.”

She reaches back to touch the crown of his head, her fingers in his hair, nails massaging his scalp. Uncharacteristically sloppy, relaxed. Familiar. His.

“I missed your perfume, you know. The one with the juniper, you don’t wear it anymore.”

Elektra smiles. “No.”

“But also here.” Matt rolls her over gently and places his finger on her chest, between her breasts, and leans in to breathe there.

“Ah, yes. I remember. You said I smelled like meat. Veal, was it? What a romantic you were.”

He was a fool for her then. “I loved you.”

“Past tense.”

Elektra’s lashes are long, he can count her blinks.

“I did,” he insists.

“And now you don’t.”

He listens to her heart, hoping for a clue, but as ever it remains infuriatingly steady. That’s how it is with her—all answers seem like lies because her heart, her breathing never wavers. There is no difference between the two intentions. She’s always removed, amused, distant. Therefore, it must always be deceit. Because that’s what it feels like.

“I think I would like to eat you.”

Matt raises his eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I think you would taste delicious.”

Elektra flips him onto his back and stands on the bed, over him. His instinct is to knock her down. One leg swipe, straight across. Before he can decide, she throws herself at him, landing hard, as if she’d read his mind. He hisses at the impact.

“Are you a predator now?”

She flings her head back and opens her mouth. He half-expects her to howl.

“ _Now_ , Matthew? I have always been the wolf. Just as you have always been the boy lost in the woods.”

Matt lunges for her and they fight. On the bed, off the bed. When she strikes, she mewls and he feels it in his head and limbs, like pleasure. She’s going easy on him and he knows it. He pushes her to go harder, show him her claws. They wind up on the floor, licking at each other’s throats.

 

* * *

 

Foggy had described Karen once: blonde, blue eyes, beautiful, tall. A child's picture of an angel.

Colors are dim in his memory so they're assigned temperature, texture. Blonde is yellow. Yellow is the hot flicker of the sun. Karen doesn't burn him. Karen is a soft glow. When he's with her he feels calm, normal. She doesn't know about the Devil, she only knows Matt. Not Matthew, no curling coo at the end of the vowel. No knowledge of him as a weapon. To her, he is only intellect and goodness. He is the person he presents to the world. The kind of man his father wanted him to be.

She’s the kind of woman his father would've liked for him to marry.

If the Devil didn't exist, there would be no hesitation.

“Earth to Matt?” Her voice is soft, layered with concern. That's Karen. Not annoyed at his distance, only concerned, and searching for a solution.

“Sorry.” He extends his hand across the rough surface of the tablecloth. She takes it and he feels the give of her relief.

“I have to confess. This is the nicest place I’ve ever eaten at. With the best company.”

Matt squeezes her hand. “You think I’m the best company?”

“Yes.”

Truth sounds more beautiful than anything he can think of right now. A steady heart, the safety of absolutes. The poetry and rightness of a just world. He hasn’t even kissed her yet. He wants to. He needs to.

 

* * *

 

The door is closed but unlocked. Matt pauses, feels down the length of the door frame, unclicks the lock and shuts it behind him. It closes with a minute click.

A jackets hangs on the doorknob on the other side. His hands tighten on the leather, a momentary creak-crunch, and his nostrils flare at the scent. He puts it on a hanger in his front closet.

He hears nothing.

There's something on the ground. Fabric, crepe, a blouse. He breathes, pauses again, slows down to fold it and leave it on the kitchen counter.

Right next to her shoes.

Seething, he takes them off the counter and puts them on the ground (where her bra sits, as if she’d known exactly what he would do). He folds that too, puts it on top of the clothes pile.

In the bathroom, by the soap, are her bracelets. He brushes his teeth.

Her underwear is in his medicine cabinet. Matt takes his damn time.

There are no more clothes so he follows the scent. A version of breadcrumbs only he’d understand and only she would leave him.

She's on the roof. Skin and juniper. Rings on her fingers.

“You do love to make me wait, Matthew.”

“I could say the same for you. I need to talk to you. Come downstairs.”

He throws a robe at her, which she catches. A few minutes after that, she’s at the door to his bedroom. Matt lies in bed, covering his face with his arm, waiting.

Elektra kneels on the bed and approaches him. She unbuttons his shirt, starting from the top. There's a slight sting from the scratch each time a button is freed and the skin is exposed. He allows it. After the last button, she stops and stretches out beside him and he turns, mirroring her position. Their knees touch and it hurts him, how familiar this is, how much he remembers wanting this. How it’s gone.

“Do you remember the no-mommy club?” she asks, the syllables clipped by the curl of her accent.

“Of course. A club of two.”

“Very exclusive. I suppose we can officially change the name of our organization to the no-parents club now.”

Her feet poke his. They're cold but he likes it. It's been so hot.

Elektra uses her knuckles to underline the scars on his chest and for a brief moment her heart speeds up. “I think about that sometimes when I need something real.”

One floor down, his neighbor, Ellis, plays the violin. He’s second chair at the Met, so it’s no hardship to listen. When he plays at home, it’s for pleasure and it’s evident in every note.

She knows the piece, she hums along. Another melody, countering the main line. The piano part.

“Is this a piece for piano and violin?”

“And cello. Ravel. It’s for a trio.”

“Ravel, your old favorite. Do you still play?”

She shakes her head. It’s a small gesture, as familiar as a Sunday in Harlem, a long time ago. He'd ask about her mother, her brother, her plans. And her response was always the same; unvoiced but expressed with that small, firm no.

Elektra turns away, stretching her arms in front of her, the heat of her fingers moving in the air as if she were playing.

“I can’t do this. You and me. Not again,” Matt says, finally. Voicing something that he’d been thinking for days and couldn’t quite bring himself to say.

“Why?”

“Because... We’re not the same people.”

“Aren’t we?”

“No.”

The violin quiets for a moment, then begins again. Electra does the piano fingering on his skin and hums along until the passage slows and dims.

“Is it so hard to believe me?”

“Yes,” he whispers. She shifts closer and gently touches the scars at his hairline.

“I see you, Matthew, for who you really are. You are the boy who pushes the witch in the oven. You defeat the huntsman, the wolf. You could be the death of me if I let you. I can’t let you win.”

“You’re a killer, Electra. I’m not.”

“You are a hero who pretends he isn't a killer. Which is far worse.”

Elektra is even closer. The fan blows her hair away, the strands split into micro-currents, and her pulse jumps. He swallows.

“There’s someone else. She knows who I am. Who I want to be. She’s a good person.”

It doesn’t have the intended effect. Her nose touches his and he kisses her. Because that is what he does when Elektra Natchios gets close enough to touch.

She rests her head on his chest and sighs. “Oh, Matthew. That is very sweet but very stupid. That girl is not good either.”

“What are you talking about? You don’t even know her.”

“No. I don’t. But nevertheless, I know that behind everything she’s presented to you, there is another person. And you haven’t met her yet.”

“You don’t know her.”

“But I know you and you know me. There is no pretending.”

She slides his shirt over his shoulder. Unbuttons and unzips his pants. He moves to help the process, lifting his hips, being pliant. When she’s about to slide his boxers down, he grabs her wrist.

“If you leave again, don’t disappear. Tell me. That’s all I ask.”

Her long hair covers his face. They kiss with its strands in their mouths and he brackets her torso with his hands, every new scar and scratch, and she sinks down. He spreads her thighs apart and her groan is high and scratchy, floating over their heads like smoke. The tempo is slow, she’s leading, bringing a hand around his neck and pulling him closer. And he lets go, brings his hands up to her face, the bump in her nose. Her cheekbones. The wet, wide stripe of her mouth. Eyebrows, chin. She lifts it when she laughs. Jaw, strong. An argument you can’t win. It’s thinner. Nose. Her face, too. Softer, her skin under the swipe of his thumbs. Her and not her. Hair over her shoulder. Turn. ing. Air. Sliding. Up. Forehead to forehead. Sweat dripping between them. There is no finesse when he comes, stuttering up into her as she keens, her grip on his neck like she’s readying him for the death strike. He would let her sink her teeth in.

That night he dreams of color for the first time in a long time. There is no sound or flavor or texture. It is just light. He follows the path of it through the brambles, his feet crunching on icy patches, walking towards some half-remembered thing. It fades as he walks, and the birds get louder, singing like warning, but he keeps on, headed towards the red.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: ghostcat3000.tumblr.com


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